


Roses in Autumn

by Tseecka



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Language of Flowers, M/M, Purple Prose, Roses, Unnecessarily flowery metaphors, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rose bloomed still, despite the cold and the lack of sun, despite the cruelty of the changing of the seasons--never giving up its beauty, defending its right to blossom with the threat of its blood red petals and sharp, cruel thorns. </p><p>Sounds like someone Alistair knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses in Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for moodybroodyelf on Tumblr, who shares my love for the delightful ship that is Fenristair. :3

There is, Alistair thinks, a metaphor here. Something about the beauty of the rose's bloom, despite the bloody red of it's petals; the way it guards itself with thorns along the stem, yet is sturdy and warmed by the sun if only one can find the right place to grip it, a way through the barriers it's grown for itself. 

The Chantry sisters always said he read too much, of things that weren't the Chant of Light. He wonders, as he makes his way back to camp, whether things like elaborate floral metaphors will have any impact on someone who hasn't read at all. He twists the stem of the rose between his fingers, spinning it gently, as he shoulders his way through the empty branches of the late autumn trees. 

The firelight is casting a vague glow, limning the edges of the dead and dying grass with the faintest hint of red and gold, competing against the fading sunlight of the vanishing afternoon. Evening is coming on quickly, bringing with it darkness and chill and the likely rush of darkspawn against the feeble defenses of their camp. Already, he can feel the bite in the air, and as he comes into the circle of the camp, carefully sidestepping Wynne's glyphs and Leliana's traps, he can tell many of his comrades feel the same. They're standing about the fire, each engrossed in their own silent contemplation. The Warden, Alistair notes with faint amusement and a bit of embarrassment, is not present at the moment--neither is Morrigan, and it takes little effort on his part to put those particular pieces together, especially when he sees the wide berth everyone else has given one particular tent. 

He has no space to judge, however; he knows full well that Morrigan is not the only one of their companions viewed as needlessly abrasive and disdainful of their little party, and she is not the one to whom he's bringing a damned rose. He skirts the edge of the camp, nodding to each of them as he passes, his eyes on a particularly stately elm at the edge of their little clearing. Morrigan and Amell are not the only ones eschewing the fire, tonight. 

Surprisingly, Alistair makes it all the way to the thick, gnarled trunk of the tree without Fenris leaping down to intercept his approach. He wonders, for a moment, if perhaps the elf is already asleep. He lifts his hand to rap at the bark with his knuckles, and is interrupted by a short, barking laugh from over his head. He steps back, and looks up, seeing Fenris' silver hair and the faint glow of his markings among the crackling foliage. 

"It is not a door," the gruff voice murmurs from above, and there is a rustling as he descends, moving gracefully from branch to branch, somehow causing less disturbance than a passing breeze. Alistair steps back, respectfully, giving the elf his distance until his bare feet touch the earth. Fenris leans back against the trunk of the tree, folding his arms across his chest. "You need not knock."

"I wasn't sure how else to get your attention," Alistair admits, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as his face heats. He's caught a bit off guard by Fenris' gentle amusement at his expense; feels wrong-footed, off balance. Nothing ever plays out as it should. 

"You have it now. What do you wish of me?"

Alistair coughs, and glances back towards the camp. The assassin seems to be deep in conversation with Sten, but Alistair doesn't miss the way he's angled himself, and fancies he sees Zevran's eyes flicking over towards them regularly. He would much rather do this without an audience, he thinks miserably, and meets Fenris' intense, curious gaze with his own eyes. 

"I...have something for you. Found something, for you, I mean--out in the woods." Before he can think any better of it, he holds out the rose, gaze falling from Fenris' eyes down to the scarlet bloom. 

There is a long, pregnant silence, and Alistair is very nearly ready to withdraw the flower and run away in shame and embarrassment before Fenris clears his throat. 

"And...what am I to do with this?"

It is, Alistair thinks, a very good question. What do people do with flowers--with tokens of any sort, really? It is not as though their lifestyle allows for him to fill a vase with water and set it on the table, or the mantel; not as though Fenris is the sort of man to wear flowers in his hair, or in the lapel of a gentleman's suit. He realizes that he may not have thought this through. "Erm. Whatever you like, I suppose? You don't have to do anything with it, you can toss it on the ground if you like, or keep it in your bag or next to your--" he catches himself, remembering that Fenris doesn't sleep in a sleeping roll, unlike the rest of them. "In a crook of a branch, or--it's an expression. Of...affection."

He can almost hear Fenris' confusion deepen. "I have heard of such tokens before," he says slowly. "But always in terms of practical gifts. A rose is..." He trails off, as though unable to find a word, but reaches out for the flower nonetheless. Alistair murmurs a warning to mind the thorns. 

"It made me think of you, I suppose," he offers uncomfortably. 

"Of me? Why?"

 _It's wild,_ Alistair thinks.  _Wild and beautiful and dangerous_. "The season for roses is done," he says instead. "When autumn comes, they can't handle the frosts and the cold, the lack of sunlight. It's too harsh for them, outside the safety of summer." He reaches out, touches the petals gently where the rose hovers still between them, wishing Fenris would either toss it to the ground or hold it to him, not stand there with his arm outstretched and the rose stark and lonely between them. 

"This rose blooms still. It refused to give up and die, intent on delivering one last perfect flower despite the adversity of its environment."

Fenris huffs a surprised laugh, looking down at the flower, and Alistair--ridiculously--wants to kiss the crown of his head. He doesn't move. 

"The most dangerous beauty is that which bares its teeth," he murmurs, testing the prick of one thorn against the pad of his thumb. Alistair hardly dares breathe as he watches the blood well up, watches Fenris take his thumb between his lips to suckle at the bead of blood there. He takes a careful, reckless step forward, closing the distance between them incrementally. 

"Only for those who don't understand how to navigate that danger," he says softly. "I know my way around roses--and their thorns." 

Fenris looks up at him, and whatever Alistair was expecting on his face, it is not that brief, unguarded smile. He can't help matching it with one of his own, and moves to take another step closer, but then--

"Thank you," Fenris says, and it sounds sincere, He steps away from the tree--closer to Alistair, for that brief moment, and Alistair's heart rate increases more than it should in such a small window of time--turns on his heel, and pulls himself back into the tree before Alistair can do anything about it. A bit dumbfounded, at a loss, Alistair watches him climb back to the thick, heavy branch where he was resting before. He raises a hand to Alistair--in thanks or in dismissal, it's impossible to tell--and, with a heavy sigh, Alistair decides not to press the issue. 

He does not see the way Fenris cradles the blossom in his hands, not minding the thorns, and stares after him as he makes his way back to the campfire. 


End file.
